


Thief

by J_Q



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:48:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25404133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/pseuds/J_Q
Summary: A love story about meeting your partner...in crime.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 123
Kudos: 222
Collections: Gallavich Week 2020





	Thief

" _Hors d'oeuvre_ ?” Mickey asked for the one millionth time that evening. It was getting to the point where the word had lost all meaning. Not that it had much meaning to begin with since the closest he’d ever come to an _hors d'oeuvre_ in his life were the piggies in a blanket his sister made for his 12th birthday.

“Looks interesting.”

He gave the redheaded guest a doubtful look as he studied the tray of appetizers Mickey was balancing on his palm.

“What are they?”

Mickey felt the pulse in his temple throb and reached a white-gloved finger toward the ache. Maybe a little massage would save him from upending the serving tray into the nearest potted plant on his way out the double French doors of the fucking mansion he was trapped in for the evening. It belonged to what Mickey had come to think of as the douchiest rich guy in Chicago, which was saying a lot since the whole room was filled with assholes dressed in evening wear worth more than he’d make in a month of serving them.

Regardless, he had a job to do and do it he fucking would. The redhead certainly seemed interested in hearing what he had to say about the food he was serving, considering he hadn’t taken his eyes off Mickey since he’d shoved his tray in the guy’s face.

“Caviar and _crème fraîche_ …” he sucked his bottom lip between his teeth briefly, “tartlets.”

The grin on the redhead’s face almost got him a tartlet facial, but Mickey was a fucking professional in his black dress shirt and pants and little white bowtie, so he simply held the tray up for inspection and ignored the playful glint in the other man’s eyes.

When he picked up the appetizer, holding it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, Mickey had to admire the gracefulness in the way he used his hands. Like he belonged in this hoity toity world of tartlets and white-gloved servers not in Mickey’s world of pizza pops and petty larceny.

That is until he sunk his teeth into the appetizer and apparently got his first taste of raw fish eggs. His green eyes widened in surprise, and Mickey suppressed his snicker, instead offering him a napkin like he’d been trained, yesterday, to do.

The redhead’s eyes shifted left and right then he spat the contents into the napkin, wrapping it up with the remaining food. He stared down at it uncertainly, until Mickey snagged it out of his hand and stuffed it into the pocket of the white apron tied around his waist.

The smile returned to the redhead’s face and he leaned toward Mickey. “Who’s dick do you gotta suck around here to get a burger, _amirite_?” he whispered.

Mickey was about to return the smile as well as give him a suggestion, but the moment was interrupted by a demanding voice.

“Ian, come meet the Senator.”

Mickey grasped the remaining napkins in his fist as the redhead obediently moved toward the geriatric douchebag who was hosting tonight’s political fundraiser. His salt and pepper hair was slicked back from a face that was trying hard to deny it had been around a decade or three before the redhead entered the world.

It’s not like Mickey didn’t know exactly how old the guy was (51) or what his name was (Aron Greig) or his net worth (fucking obscene) or how he made his fortune (pharmaceuticals). That was just some of the basic information he’d gathered before applying for this serving job and having to spend a whole evening being polite. 

It was simply that he didn’t fucking like the guy. Didn’t like him before tonight, and especially didn’t like him when he smiled wolfishly at the approaching redhead. The word _predator_ flitted through Mickey’s mind, but he was here to do a job not rescue a guy who didn’t need his chivalrous ass butting in.

“Those look delicious.” A tall black woman in a long red evening gown and enough gold to start her own jewelry store chain stepped between Mickey and his view of the two men. “What are they?”

He was officially not in the mood to answer that question again. “No idea,” he snarled then walked away, spotting one of the other servers entering the ballroom.

“Trade,” he demanded as soon as the floppy haired joker was close enough to hear.

Tucking his tray of champagne flutes closer to his body, the server stuttered out a tentative, “What?”

“Said we’re trading.” He shoved the tartlets at the kid, taking advantage of his surprise to grab the champagne.

“Be careful!” the twerp squawked. “It takes practice to manage those glasses.”

Mickey ignored him and moved back to the edge of the crowd of party guests who were milling about and stroking each other’s feathers like a bunch of designer peacocks. Despite a sea of fancy people, he spotted the redhead almost immediately, since he was hard to miss with his shiny hair and lean build covered in a well-made black suit.

Of course, he stood beside Greig, who had a possessive hand on the younger man’s lower back, fingers clutching the slender waist. Mickey’s research had also revealed that Greig hadn’t been in the closet for over 20 years, and not even the knowledge that the man helped bankroll the same sex marriage legislation in Illinois could warm Mickey’s heart.

He continued to watch the men, until Greig’s hand made an unprofessional trip toward the redhead’s ass, and Mickey felt his lip curl. But the younger man must have been onto the old perv’s tricks because he stepped forward to shake the senator’s hand and his ass remained unmolested.

Rolling his eyes, Mickey decided to focus on his job instead of whatever was going on with the redhead, so he shoved the tray of champagne into the middle of a group of boring looking white dudes, who were discussing the benefits of the Concealed Carry Reciprocity Act which got Mickey’s attention. He was always interested in how the government fumbled its away around gun law in the wake of all the fuckers who couldn’t behave themselves.

“Ya all really think letting any asshole in the land stuff a gun in their sock before heading to Wal-Mart is a good fu--a good idea? Take it from someone who knows, it ain’t.”

When they just stood in their little huddle staring at him like they couldn’t comprehend that someone was capable of having a brain in their head while also balancing a tray of booze, he asked with a sigh, “Drink?”

But he changed his mind and turned away before they could get their slimy fucking hands on his champagne flutes. The sudden shift in direction brought him almost face to face with the redhead and one of the flutes teetered precariously, toppling in near slow motion yet not quite slow enough for him to stop it from splashing the guy’s white dress shirt.

As he grabbed the glass before it rolled off the tray, the liquid soaked into the material making it cling to the redhead’s chest. Mickey sure wasn’t above getting an eyeful of that, but he didn’t get much further because his high strung boss showed up with a towel.

“Mikhailo,” she hissed, red lips pulled tight. “Take your break. Now.”

She gave him a push toward the hallway leading to the kitchen, while simultaneously apologizing for the _horrible_ service. If Mickey didn’t have bigger fish to fry, he would have stuck around to show her what horrible service really looked like, but he was now officially on the clock and had no time to waste on revenge.

As soon as he was out of sight of his boss, he set the serving tray on the first side table he could find. Deciding that a mild buzz could only improve his mood, he double fisted the sparkling wine, finishing them both by the time he entered the kitchen where a couple of cooks were prepping more goddamn tartlets. He set the empty flutes on the counter, ignoring their complaints about protocol and exited through the rear of the kitchen.

Instead of opening the door and heading outside for a smoke like he was supposed to though, he gazed around the entryway quickly then headed up the back stairs two at a time.

“Unbelievable,” Aron said, clamping his hand tighter around Ian’s waist, like his life was in danger rather than just his shirt.

“I’m fine. Honestly, accidents happen,” Ian offered as he dabbed his chest with the hand towel the caterer produced. He smiled at her and when she scurried away, clearly set on berating the server again, he transferred his smile to Aron, tipping his head up slightly to make eye contact. “But I’m going to smell like a wine cellar all evening.”

“I’ll take you upstairs and find you a shirt. I have hundreds,” Aron said watching Ian’s movements closely, clearly itching to press the towel to Ian’s chest himself.

“Thanks, but should you leave your guests?” Ian moved in a little closer, so he could ask the question quietly, intimately. “You’re the host, after all.”

“No, you’re right.” Aron nodded at a couple as they moved past. “You know where my bedroom is, so go pick out something.”

Ian rested his fingers on the other man’s suit covered bicep, which was extremely well defined thanks to one of Chicago’s best personal trainers. “Great idea. I’ll head up now.”

“Be quick.”

Ian waved at him as he made his way out of the ballroom and toward the main stairway. He glanced at his watch on the way up, noting the time then making a right when he reached the second floor. The hallway was empty of guests, so he quickly removed his dinner jacket and began unbuttoning his damp shirt before slipping inside the bedroom at the end of the hall. The door closed with a soft click behind him and he tossed his jacket in the direction of the bed.

The room was illuminated by only the moonlight filtering through the open patio doors, but he was familiar with the layout and walked directly to the closet. While he’d known Aron less than a week, he was still certain the man would come looking for him before too long, so he didn’t have a lot of time.

As he pulled open the closet door, the interior light spilled out, revealing row upon row of clothing interspersed with cedar drawers and shoe racks. Next to the custom made tie rack was the Boco Do Lobo home safe built into the wall and the man standing in front of it with his back to Ian, completely unfazed by the new arrival.

“What if it hadn’t been me who walked in?” Ian asked, dropping his damp shirt to the thickly carpeted closet floor.

***************

**1 Year Earlier**

Mickey imagined telling his younger self that his future included so much fucking vacuuming that he was in danger of becoming a goddamn expert, but he knew that punk would just laugh in his face. Yet, here he was pushing a Dirt Devil up and down the aisles of empty cubicles, working his way toward the office of Stuart Hill, CEO of Hill and Associates Professional Accountants LLP.

He’d been casing the 40th floor of Prudential Plaza for almost two weeks, gathering intel, discerning patterns and cleaning up after 40 nerds and their assorted assistants. Seriously, he had come to understand that the most boring fucking place in downtown Chicago was an accounting office, even a supposedly world class one.

But it wasn’t the workload of low level paper pushers he was interested in. What he was interested in was their boss, a narcissistic fool who used social media like a personal diary without a decent lock on it. In preparation for this job, Mickey had spent months reading that very public diary and soaking up all the shit the man shared with the world, which included details about his business complete with photos. Fascinating information that Mickey eventually intended to use for more than fucking vacuuming--as soon as he figured out how to avoid getting caught.

Cursing under his breath, he flicked off the machine because apparently he needed to change the vacuum’s bag before he could finish the rest of the reception area. Just as he crouched down, the elevator doors opened and two men spilled out creating a disturbing commotion in what Mickey had come to think of as his quiet space.

However, it looked like this might be the break he’d been waiting for since one of the men was none other than Stuart Hill, the CEO himself. Mickey recognized the aging face and receding hairline from Facebook as well as the photos of him and his wife--and grandchildren--on the credenza in the big ass corner office.

Neither man appeared to notice Mickey bent over the vacuum cleaner’s inner workings, so he watched them out of the corner of his eye. His attention now captured by the redheaded companion who seemed unphased by the fact he was getting manhandled by someone’s goddamn married grandfather.

“Ian, you’re hilarious,” Hill said.

Ian, who had half the years and a million times the sex appeal of Hill, hooked his fingers around the dude’s tie, tugging a little and getting Hill’s full attention, and reluctantly a little bit of Mickey’s as well. The fingers were long and graceful, but also determined as they tightened in the patterned tie. While Mickey might understand the voyeuristic appeal of a lot of gay porn, he wasn’t interested in seeing where this scenario was headed.

“I need another drink. Something strong, if you got it.” Ian continued to tug on the tie, bringing the other man so close he was able to lower his voice, but not enough to avoid it reaching Mickey’s ears. “Alcohol makes me horny.”

That very nearly induced a heart attack in Hill and something a little less lethal in Mickey but not by much. Heat traveled down his spine, like a spark of life that exploded in his lower belly. The redhead was clearly using every seductive trick in the book, and while it made sense that it was working on Hill’s desperate old ass, it damn well didn’t make sense that it was also working so well on Mickey.

Hill mumbled incoherent agreement, or at least Mickey thought it was incoherent and not just his refusal to understand whatever lecherous response Ian’s announcement evoked.

As the men moved slowly out of reception and Mickey lost sight of them, he stood up, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. Something fishy was going on. He refused to believe that the redhead intended to follow through on his innuendo unless there was something tangible at the end. Whatever that might be, it was bound to fuck with Mickey’s carefully laid plans, so he clamped his hollowed out sound canceling headphones over his ears and pushed his janitor cart in the direction of the men. If they spotted him, they’d see a cleaner in oversized headphones bopping to an imaginary beat and emptying trash into the cart.

But he needn’t have worried since the men disappeared into Hill’s office leaving the door ajar just enough for Mickey to see Ian standing near the heavy cherrywood desk. He was in profile, smiling slightly and watching whatever Hill was doing. Mickey followed the line of his nose to the soft swell of his lips before traveling down his body to the front of his fitted jeans.

 _Damn_ , Mickey cursed.

“You’re right that your view of Lake Michigan is even more spectacular at night,” Ian said, but as far as Mickey could tell he hadn’t even looked at the view.

“Told you.” Hill appeared in the scene, handing Ian a glass of what was likely scotch based on the selection Hill kept in his office.

“Thank you for inviting me back.” He tipped his tumbler against Hill’s.

“Thank you for writing an article about me.”

“The magazine is always looking for groundbreaking entrepreneurs.” Ian leaned back against the desk, ass pressed to the edge, and spread his long legs enough for Hill to step between them. Mickey felt another jolt travel down his spine, but this one was very different from the last one.

Hill leaned in, lips clearly headed for the soft pink ones that Mickey had been studying like he was preparing for an exam. Instinctively, Mickey grasped the metal trash bin thinking he could make a racket to stop this fucking trainwreck before it got anymore horrifying.

“You don’t have any cameras in your office, do you, Stuart?”

“Absolutely not,” Hill claimed truthfully, since Mickey had determined that for himself the first night on the job. “It’s just you and me.”

The trash bin silently dropped to Mickey’s side when Ian turned his head enough that the other man’s lips only grazed his cheek, slowly moving along his jaw toward his neck.

While nowhere near as vomit inducing as if he’d actually kissed the redhead, the thought of the guy’s wet lips and tongue on the pale, freckled skin was bringing out Mickey’s well cultivated uncivilized side. That is, until he actually looked at Ian. His eyes were open, alert, watching his own hand flip through the leather bound daytimer on Hill’s desk. Mickey knew it was the daytimer because he’d had a good look at it himself earlier in the week.

Obviously finding it as unhelpful as Mickey had, Ian ran his free hand down Hill’s arm, getting his attention. “Could you get me a glass of water?”

The other man agreed, reluctantly ungluing himself from the redhead. “I’ll grab you a bottle from the staff kitchen.”

“Thanks,” Ian smiled.

Mickey turned his back on the men, tipping the trash can into the bag opened in his cart, while making sure to nod his head a little to the imaginary music. Gauging the amount of time it would take for Hill to turn down the hallway to the staff lounge, he spun around creeping silently toward Hill’s office and arriving near the entrance in time to see Ian pawing through the contents in the top drawer of Hill’s desk. Clearly he was here for more than a late night tax audit.

Waste of time, he wanted to tell the guy. Ain’t gonna find shit in any of those drawers, not even the locked one.

Done with the search, Ian straightened his back and Mickey stepped away from the door, hurrying back to his cart and sauntering down the aisle to the next cubicle just as Hill returned. This time he saw Mickey, seeming a little startled, but Mickey nodded pleasantly and went back to his garbage detail. Hill closed the office door behind him.

Fuck, Mickey spat, unsure what to do now. Emptying trash cans was going to make him mental because he fucking knew what was going down behind that goddamn door. Or rather who was going down.

Fuck, he spat again, tempted to pull the fire alarm and completely ignore any common sense that tried to horn in on the unreasonable reaction he was having to a guy he'd never even officially met. But he wasn’t going to have to do anything stupid since the office door opened and both men walked out.

“Why don’t you just call me a cab,” Ian suggested, sounding completely miserable. “I don’t want to waste more of your time. You’re an important man and must have a ton of important meetings tomorrow.”

“Don’t be silly,” Hill practically beamed, clearly unaware that Ian was dodging the old ass he was also kissing. “I’ll drive you. Make sure you get home safe.”

Ian thanked him by touching his bicep as they moved toward reception. “I’m sure I’ll feel better once I get some rest.”

 _Sneaky bastard_. Mickey smiled to himself and happily dumped the contents of the next bin into the garbage.

Two nights later, Ian stepped out of the elevator and into the reception area of Hill and Associates, casually swinging the bottle of scotch he’d wrapped prettily. It was time to lay on the special attention and lay it on thick. After Tuesday night’s abrupt end, Stuart had texted him what felt like hourly. On the surface, it had been to make sure that Ian was feeling better, but under the surface, it had been to entice Ian into another rendezvous.

Hill’s final text stated that he would be working late at the office tonight, so Ian decided to surprise the man with not only a bottle of scotch but with Ian himself wrapped up just as prettily. He’d chosen dark jeans that might be a half size too small and a light weight sweater that definitely was, then topped it with a soft leather jacket. His face was clean shaven and dabbed with expensive aftershave that he’d sampled at Macy’s earlier.

When Ian had arrived at the security desk requesting access to the 40th floor, naturally, Stuart had eagerly told the guard to let him up. Inside the elevator, Ian sent a text to his little brother making sure he’d set the alarm on his phone so he wouldn’t forget to call Ian with the sad, sad news that their beloved father had fallen ill. Ian would need a moment to gather himself and talk to his brother in private--preferably in Hill’s office.

Plan in motion, he arrived on the 40th floor and spotted Stuart leaving his office at the same time as he spotted a cleaning guy pushing a vacuum cleaner up one of the aisles of cubicles, ears covered in large white earphones. Their eyes met briefly, both surprised by the other’s presence.

“Ian!” Stuart held his arms out and Ian stepped between them accepting the kiss. He didn’t stay in the man’s arms long enough for it to become more than an airy brush of lips.

Using the bottle of scotch as an excuse to put space between their bodies, he explained, “I wanted to apologize for the other night.”

Stuart slid the bottle out of the colorful bag and gave Ian a sweet smile that might have been sincere if he didn’t also have a wife at home who definitely didn’t suspect that her husband was trying to bone a guy younger than their own son.

“Nothing at all to apologize for. I hope you can stay a little longer this time,” he said waving Ian into his office. “Would you like to sample the scotch you brought?”

“I better not.” He smiled, like an inexperienced kid who hadn’t learned how to drink at his alcoholic father’s knee.

Hill chuckled, like a benevolent parent. “Wise decision.”

As he dealt with the bottle of scotch, Ian dumped his jacket on the visitor’s chair and made a slow loop around the room, pretending to admire the shit displayed on his shelves and walls.

“Is that a…” Ian tipped his head a little to see if the artwork made better sense, “dick?”

Again, Hill’s chuckle was obviously intended to indulge Ian’s naivety. “Abstract art takes years to understand,” he explained with a wink.

So does poor taste, Ian decided but kept his mouth shut. “Well, hopefully, I’ll have years to learn.” He looked straight into Hill’s brown eyes then dropped his gaze.

“Uh, yes, me too.” He stumbled over the response, and Ian stepped a little closer to keep the momentum going. Clearing his throat, Hill motioned to the painting again then leaned in toward Ian, voice low. “It’s also a way to hide my safe from prying eyes.”

“Oh!” Having found the safe last time he’d snooped, Ian pretended to be surprised and reached a hand out to touch the painting but pulled it back shyly. “Sorry, I’m being nosy.”

Hill smiled. “Go ahead. It’s a top of the line safe, so it’s not like you--or anyone--could crack it.”

Ian gave him an impressed look, or at least he hoped it was because he was getting annoyed with the guy’s self-importance even though it was the very feature that had drawn Ian to him in the first place. Well, that and his net worth.

“Fascinating,” Ian said, pulling the edge of the colorful painting away from the wall and revealing the hammered grey finish of the Mesa wall safe as well as the mechanical dial lock and not the digital keypad he’d been expecting. Turned out, Hill was old school in more ways than one, and Ian could kiss him for it.

After getting a good look at the safe’s features this time, he released the painting. Even though he wasn’t an expert on safes, he was certain Mesa brands included a key override option for when you forget your combination, which was why he had returned tonight. Ian needed to find the override key, and the most likely location was Hill’s office.

He stepped away from the painting, continuing his slow perusal of Hill’s office. A large stone carving of an owl sat alongside a shelf of books, and Ian was just about to ask about it when Hill’s cell phone rang.

Holding a finger out to Ian, the man moved toward his desk, obviously looking for privacy, which Ian was not going to give him.

“Yes?” he said into his phone. “What is it?”

Pretending to examine the carving, Ian peaked under it but no key sat beneath it.

“You let her up?” Hill snapped. He shot a look at Ian then hung up. “Um.”

Ian tipped his head, innocently. “We have a visitor?”

Clutching at the tie knotted around his neck, Hill nodded. “My...wife.”

“Oh!” Ian’s eyes widened and he looked at the door in horror. “Oh!”

Hill shot over to the mini-bar, pouring at least three fingers of scotch and knocking it back in one go. “Wait here,” he commanded on the way to the door.

Happily, Ian thought.

With his fingers on the knob, he looked pleadingly at Ian. “Could you maybe…”

Ian smiled. “Of course,” he agreed, well versed in married men. “Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to get your new intern up to speed...Mr. Hill.”

Swallowing heavily, Hill nodded gratefully as he left the room, power-walking toward reception while Ian quickly returned to the owl carving, moving it to the left and right. It was his experience that rich dudes hid shit like override keys in plain sight thinking people would search their drawers and cabinets but not move their heavy stone carvings or shake out each one of their boring ass books. Since Hill had so many knickknacks, Ian was going to need more time to search.

“I want to meet this new intern myself, Stuart.”

Ian grabbed a heavy textbook from the shelf, so the moment that the shrill voice arrived in the office, he was leaning over the desk, yellow highlighter in hand and the inbox of random paperwork spread out in front of him.

She looked exactly like the hundreds of photos he’d seen on Facebook, so her tanned skin and big hair were not the surprise they would have been.

“Hello,” Ian said with a welcoming smile. He dropped the highlighter to the desk and walked toward her with his hand extended. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. And I apologize for keeping Mr. Hill so late tonight. I’m sure he’d rather be home.”

“Oh, you’re…" she said obviously surprised by the combination of chromosomes in her husband’s new intern.

“This is Ian,” Hill explained. “He’s struggling with some of our newer tax forms.”

Mrs. Hill accepted Ian’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“I really am sorry to keep your husband,” he repeated. “There is just so much to learn.”

“Right. Of course.” She looked around the office perhaps still expecting a female intern to appear from under the desk and vindicate her. Clearly suspicious despite a lack of incriminating evidence, she frowned at her husband who put an arm around her shoulders, subtly moving her toward the door.

“Shall I walk you down to the care, dear?” Hill offered.

“I suppose I should let you two get back to it.”

Ian controlled his smile until the Hills left the office. He thanked the universe for intervening on his behalf because this happy plan beat the hell out of the one he’d concocted, which relied on his brother’s memory and Ian’s ability to manipulate Hill.

With a little ass wiggle, he returned to the wall of books wondering if he should continue his search here or maybe check out the mini-bar first, knowing that he had a maximum of 20 minutes before Hill returned.

“Find what you’re looking for?”

Ian spun around at the unexpected voice, heart pounding in his ears. Shit, he’d forgotten about the goddamn cleaning guy, who now stood in the doorway, one bare shoulder pressed against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. The sleeveless black tee allowed for a clear view of defined biceps and forearms, but it was the narrowed blue eyes that were getting the bulk of Ian’s attention.

This was no dummy. _Fuck_.

“Yup, just wanted to look something up in…” He grabbed the first book that caught his eye, pulling it off the shelf by the spine. “Interpretation of Financial Statements.”

“Mm, yeah, real page turner?”

Ian watched the movement of the man’s full lips as something resembling a smirk appeared. Glancing back up at his challenging blue eyes, Ian panicked a bit because he was certain that this man was not going to fall for Ian’s bag of tricks.

Breaking eye contact, he flipped through several pages of the book trying to calm his mind before stopping on a random page to read the heading. “Ah, here it is. Ratios and indicators…”

He refused to look up, hoping the nosy janitor would take the hint and fuck off before Hill came back and he lost his chance to find the damn override key. Precious moments ticked by with Ian pretending to read meaningless words, while the intense eyes continued to study him.

When he couldn’t take it anymore, he smacked the covers of the book together and shoved it back into its spot on the shelf. “Well, thanks for checking in on me, but don’t you have, um, work to do?”

“Looks like you still got work to do yourself.” He lifted his chin toward the rows of books, and Ian wondered then what he actually knew, and more importantly, how he knew that Ian was up to something. It seemed pretty unlikely that this janitor and Hill were working as a team to catch Ian in the act because he hadn’t even known the nosy bastard existed before tonight. Yet, the guy seemed to think he knew Ian, which freaked him the fuck out.

“Just waiting for Stuart to get back, so if you don’t mind...” He motioned to the door giving it a few flicks with his fingers. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Yeah, you got Hill for that.”

Ian shot him a middle finger because this guy really needed to take his cocky attitude and fuck the hell off taking whatever he thought he knew with him.

In response to Ian’s gesture, Mr Nosy lifted a fist to his mouth and pretended to cough. “Twink.”

“Excuse me,” Ian snapped, hands on his hips now. “Did you just call me a fucking twink?”

“If the glass slipper fits, wear it, Snow White.”

Lifting his chin, Ian sneered. “It’s Cinderella.”

“Ah, my bad, Cinderella.”

“No! She’s the one who wears--oh, nevermind.”

The guy pushed away from the doorframe, but instead of leaving, he stepped into the room giving it a quick scan before returning his attention to Ian.

“You working a scam, Cinderella?”

“Fuck off.”

“Nah,” he paused to give Ian a slow once over, his tongue working the corner of his mouth thoughtfully. “I know a thief when I see one.”

Ignoring the jolt of panic that word created, Ian returned the once over, giving the bare arms, defined chest and stocky legs an equally thorough leer, which seemed to only entertain the man not antagonize him. “Are you really a janitor?”

“Well, I didn’t just empty a goddamn mountain of trash cans outta the goodness of my heart, now did I?” he said with a shrug. “You really that joker’s plaything?”

Ian mimicked his shrug, knowing if he didn’t get rid of the guy pronto then he would lose this golden opportunity to search Hill’s office. “Well, I didn’t just suck his dick outta the goodness of my heart, now did I?”

“TMI, man.”

“What’re you a teenage girl in a thug body?” Ian was getting pissed off because he knew that he was screwed. Even if this guy fucked off right now, Ian was too exposed. Since he didn’t intend to steal any _thing_ from Hill’s safe, he’d technically be okay if the janitor blew the whistle on him. But he didn’t actually want Hill to even suspect him of wrongdoing. The plan was for the CEO to never know he’d been scammed, except this nosy bastard seemed determined to interfere.

“So what are you tryna steal cause you seriously suck at it?”

Ian threw up his hands in defeat. “Nothing.” He stomped to the chair where he’d left his jacket, figuring if he wasn’t gonna get what he wanted out of Hill’s safe then he sure as shit wasn’t going to put up with more crap from this guy or from fucking Hill for that matter.

“You looking for an override key?”

Ian froze. How the fuck did he know that? Shit was seriously getting out of hand now, and he needed to get out while the getting was good. Swallowing dryly and feeling weirdly exposed, he picked up his jacket.

“Don’t need it.”

The voice was quiet, cocky and somehow the sexiest thing Ian had ever heard in his 22 years. He dropped his jacket back to the chair and turned toward the guy, who now stood next to the awful piece of abstract art clearly taking pleasure in throwing Ian off course. For the first time since the unlikely janitor arrived in the office, Ian thoroughly looked at him. He’d already noted the intelligent eyes and the fit body, but now he became aware of the effect he had on Ian.

As they stared at each other, assessing and challenging and seeing who’d break first, Ian felt something instinctual pull him toward the man. A familiarity that contrasted with his apprehension over trusting a stranger. It was oddly exhilarating, perhaps some of it was the danger, but he was certain it was more than just a thrill. It was the awareness that, without any concrete reason for it, he was going to trust this guy.

At least enough to hear him out. “Theoretically, if I _was_ looking for a key, why wouldn’t I need it?” he asked without breaking eye contact.

“ _Theoretically_ , I can crack it.”

And Ian immediately started to doubt both his instincts and his sanity. “Yeah right. With fucking dynamite?”

“Nah. My hands.” He held up both hands, wiggling his fingers, and Ian noticed the tattoos for the first time. He wasn’t sure if they put his mind at ease or confirmed his reckless decision making.

“So, what? You got the combination?”

“Pay attention, Cinderella. Said I could crack it not open it.”

“With your hands?”

“Well, my fingers actually.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Ian scoffed, frustration returning along with the knowledge that time was wasting while he listened to a lunatic claim he could crack a safe with only his goddamn fingers. “That safe isn't a cheap piece of shit from Wal-Mart.”

“Don’t matter.” The guy shrugged, still oozing that damn confidence that overrode Ian’s hesitation and filled him with tingly alertness.

“Okay, then, why don’t you show me these magic fingers?” When his dick responded to that question, he added sexual awareness to the growing list of things that attracted him to this cocky janitor.

“First, we gotta sort some shit out.”

Along with the low key arousal, his agitation over the situation had now returned. “Hill is gonna be back any minute, so we don’t exactly have time for a team meeting. Besides, if you’re some world class safe cracker, why are you hanging around here cleaning offices instead of cleaning him out?”

“Cracking the safe is only half the battle, man.” He raised his eyebrows in expectation, probably testing Ian’s powers of deduction.

“You needed to get access to the office...so you became a janitor?”

“Bingo, and to scope shit out because if something goes missing, who do you think’s the first person they’ll suspect?” He jammed a thumb into his chest, drawing Ian’s eyes back to the curve of his pecs. “The help.”

“So what were you planning to _steal_?” he whispered the last word, realizing a little belatedly that Hill could return and Ian would barely notice since all his attention was on his new accomplice.

“Got some ideas,” he said noncommittally. “What do _you_ think is worth putting my ass on the line for?”

Even though Ian had only recently graduated to this level of scam, he was learning to trust his instincts when he couldn’t weigh the pros and cons of every decision. He took two steps forward. “Information.”

“What kind?”

“Backup,” Ian said, warming immediately to his topic. “All the shit on Hill’s computer will get backed up regularly. A lot of stuff is saved on their network, but Hill’s personal, important stuff will be saved on an external hard drive that needs to be stored in a secure, fireproof location.”

“Like a wall safe.”

“Yup.”

“You know this?”

Ian broke the eye contact to look over his shoulder at the dark city skyline and think about how to explain what his gut knew to be true.

“Ah. You’re guessing,” the guy said and their eyes met again.

“Yeah, but I’ve never been wrong before.”

“How many times have you jacked backup info?”

Ian hesitated for only a second, but it was long enough to get a knowing grin in response. “Okay, only once, but I got some good stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Passwords, contact info, spreadsheets, personal shit that people keep on their computer that can be turned into cash or...new jobs.”

“How’d you get into the safe that time?”

Those meaty arms crossed again like he wasn’t going to budge without knowing Ian’s whole backstory, which they obviously didn’t have time for. Either he was taking the risk that Ian had decided to take or they were done here.

“Look, you wanna chit chat or crack open the safe and see if I’m right?” Ian challenged. “Hill’s gonna be back any second.”

“Yeah, all right. Let’s see what we see.” He stretched his fingers wide then closed them into fists, repeating it a couple more times while Ian watched and hoped he’d made the right decision. “Keep your eye out for the boss.”

Reluctantly, Ian moved a few steps closer to the door, but he refused to give up his view of the alleged magic fingers in action. If this was a trap, he wasn’t walking into it totally blind. Quickly scanning the cubicles and hallway leading to reception, he offered an “All clear.”

“Thanks, Army.”

They fell silent after that. His new partner in crime studied the safe for a moment, and Ian studied his body from where he stood in profile. He was a few inches shorter than Ian, but solid. His dark hair was cut short, cleanly trimmed like he took care of himself. While Ian had no extra room in his jeans, this guy had chosen a loose fit but it didn’t hide the shape of his thighs or ass, which Ian decided were right up his alley.

When the tattooed fingers finally lifted to the mechanical dial on the face of the safe, his eyes closed softly and his lips parted in concentration. The dial began to turn.

Painfully slow.

Leaning forward to get a better look, Ian had to hold back his exasperation, feeling certain that at this rate, they’d still be standing here when Hill and Associates opened tomorrow morning. As the seconds ticked by, he became aware that he’d entrusted not just his potential income but his personal freedom to a total stranger based on nothing more than his goddamn instincts, and probably a little lust. His blood pressure rose and his foot started tapping against the carpeted floor.

“Do you mind?”

His voice startled Ian out of his fretting and he relaxed his foot. “Uh, sorry.”

But the guy’s attention was already back to work on the dial, head tipped to the side like he was listening intently. It would have been almost soothing if they weren’t minutes away from being caught. Ian was just about to acknowledge that he’d been had by a fucking con artist when the safe door popped open.

“Holy shit,” he whispered as soon as their eyes met. “That was barely a minute.”

“Amateur level.” If Ian thought the cocky voice was sexy, it had nothing on the smile he got. Adrenaline swamped his body, and possibly even his soul, as he reacted to the sight of those perfect white teeth framed by full lips and the confident glint in his eye. With a flick of dark eyebrows, he waved toward the open safe. “All yours.”

Ian leaped forward, pulling his iPhone from his jacket pocket and the tiny digital reader from the front pocket of his jeans. He shoved it into the USB port on his phone, all the while making his way to the safe where he scanned the interior, spotting the hard drive between a small stack of bills and a ton of paperwork.

After handing Ian a pair of blue latex gloves from his back pocket, the guy walked to the office door giving the outer area a quick scan while Ian gave his body another quick scan before getting to work.

“You don’t wear gloves?” Ian asked as he set the phone inside the safe, stretching the gloves over his hands.

“Nah.”

Picking up the palm sized hard drive, Ian fit the end of the attached cable into the port on his phone before opening the digital reader app and scanning the contents of the drive. He selected _All_ and hit _Copy_.

It took nearly as long to transfer all the files to his phone as it did for those magic fingers to open the safe. When it was done, he returned the drive to the exact spot he’d found it and stepped back from the safe, assuming that he should let the expert lock it back up.

“Over 2 gigs of info.”

“If you say so.” He gave Ian and his phone an assessing look before shutting the safe door and spinning the dial. He produced a rag, also from his back pocket, gave the dial a thorough wiping then, using the cloth, reset the dial to what Ian assumed was the original position.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to wear gloves?” he asked while removing the gloves from his hands.

“The grooves in the locking mechanism are so shallow that gloves interfere with the sensitivity.” Now that the painting was back in place against the wall, he turned to face Ian directly, close enough for his body heat to envelope Ian and the blueness of his eyes to take him by surprise. “Ya know, like a condom interferes when you’re bangin’?”

Ian choked a little on his need to swallow as an image of himself hovering over the guy’s naked body filled his brain. When he felt the gloves being pulled from his grip, he dropped his eyes to the tattoos on the man’s fingers.

“Fuck me up,” he breathed.

A quiet chuckle reached his ears, and he was done. All the points of his life had collided tonight in this man and his beautiful fucking fingers.

“I’m Ian.” The faint sound of the elevator announcing its arrival signaled the end of their time together, but Ian was reluctant to let him go without staking some kind of claim. “And I’m gonna kiss you someday.”

Those dark eyebrows shot up. “That a fact?”

“It’s definitely a fact.”

Ian’s smile grew as he watched the guy walk away, cockiness in every step.

“What’s your name?” he called out fully expecting him to disappear through the door without answering, but he stopped just as he got to it, looking over his shoulder.

“Mickey.”

Ian touched his chest just above his beating heart, feeling the anticipation of the moment thump against his fingertips.

**************

**Present Day**

“What if it hadn’t been me who walked through that door?” Ian asked, dropping his damp dress shirt to the thickly carpeted closet floor.

Mickey only grunted in response, still focused on the five feet of gold plated safe in front of him. The thing itself was worth at least a hundred grand and was reputed to be impossible to crack because it relied on the traditional mechanical dial lock and not a modern electronic keypad that could be jacked with the right technology. However, this mechanical wheel lock housed six, not the typical three, gates that needed lined up before the mechanism would release, creating hundreds of thousands of possible combinations.

Which was all irrelevant to Mickey because there had yet to be a lock he couldn’t pick. It only meant that he needed an extra minute or two. At least, that’s what Ian hoped. They hadn’t tested the theory since there was no logical way for Mickey to get near one of these safes unless it was illegally.

“How close?” Ian asked.

“Got three of six.”

“That might be a record, even for you.”

“Yeah.”

Ian didn’t have to see his face to know what it looked like right now. Eyes closed, lips parted, left ear tipped toward the wheel listening for a click that only he could hear and fingers tense around the dial feeling for a notch only he could feel. Over the last year, Ian had tried to hone his senses to detect anything happening with the bolt work, but he hadn’t been able to crack a single one of the locking systems Mickey had littering their apartment.

Figuring they had a spare minute since Mickey seemed unphased by what the security system marketed as the Lamborghini of safes, Ian stepped forward, hand running slowly over the rounded ass on its way to the front of his black pants. His lips caressed the sensitive skin at the side of his neck and his bare chest pressed into the broad back. The familiarity of watching Mickey manipulate a lock made it even more intoxicating because he had so many memories of doing this exact thing. Sitting behind him, tucking his body securely into Ian’s while he played around with assorted locks.

“I’m tryna concentrate here, Gallagher.”

“Pretend I’m not here.”

“So who exactly would have their long ass fingers down my pants then?”

He licked the soft skin behind Mickey’s ear pulling the lobe between his lips roughly, and his hand filled up with Mickey’s cock.

“Mm,” he moaned, tightening his fingers.

“Jesus Christ, Ian, stop it,” he hissed.

Detecting more than safe cracking anxiety in Mickey’s voice, he removed his hand and lips but didn’t step away. “You worried you won’t be able to crack the rest of the combination? It’s top of the line shit. New for you.”

Mickey gave him a scowl over his shoulder. “ _Please_ ,” he sneered, returning his attention to the locking mechanism and the weakest point of entry for someone who’d built a career around gaining entry. The safe walls were double walled steel and the door was reinforced with rebar as well as an anti-drill plate, leaving only two ways in. The override key, which Ian had definitely not gotten access to or the locking mechanism, which Mickey and his magic fingers were currently manipulating.

Even though this was clearly not the time to press the issue, Ian wasn’t going back down to Aron unless he knew what was bothering Mickey.

“So then what’s your problem?” he prompted.

“Who says I got a problem?”

“Me obviously, since I’m the one who asked.”

“Why don’t you ask your boyfriend?”

“ _Ah_.”

“Don’t fucking _ah_ me, asshole.”

Ian slipped his body between Mickey and the safe, the cool metal against the bare skin of his back adding to his horniness, which he intended to use to help Mickey forget that Ian had spent time in Aron’s house over the last week. He ran his hand down Mickey’s chest, biting his lip as he watched its path.

“I don’t think we can work together anymore, man.”

Ian’s eyes shot to Mickey’s. “What?”

“You look like you’re gonna blow me while I work the com lock.”

Ian groaned. He hadn’t thought of that option. “Can I? Do you think we have time?” he asked skeptically.

“Of course fucking not,” Mickey snapped. “We’re on borrowed time as it is, so get your ass out of the way and cover yourself up, for chrissake.”

Ian pressed a lingering kiss to Mickey’s lips, feeling them soften under his touch. “I love you.”

“Whatever.”

Ian tried again, tucking Mickey’s lower lip between his own. “I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Me too.”

“Can you be less hot when you’re safe cracking, so we can get shit done already?”

Mickey shook his head but Ian could see the smirk behind the grumpy layer, so he let Mickey get to work and moved to the dress shirts hanging in a tidy rainbow, flipping through until he found a light blue one close to his size and tugged it from the hanger.

_“Ian, what’s taking you so long?”_

They froze as the voice carried from the bedroom through the partially open closet door.

“Gonna fucking strangle him,” Mickey whispered, angry eyes on Ian now instead of the safe. “Snap his goddamn ne--.”

With a dismissive wave, Ian slipped out of the closet, nearly slamming the door behind him just as Aron flicked on the wall sconces that surrounded the four poster king sized bed.

“I came to check on you,” he said, eyes roaming Ian’s bare chest, which was really on display because he’d pressed his shoulder blades into the closet door, using what he hoped was a seductive pose to keep the door from opening. When he felt pressure against his back, he tightened his abs and Aron’s eyes traveled over them not stopping until they reached the front of Ian’s dress pants, leaving a trail of distaste behind. He was tempted to let Mickey out.

“You just had so many beautiful shirts to choose from that it took me forever to decide,” Ian cooed, holding up the cotton shirt he’d selected and trying not to let his internal response show. They each had their jobs. Mickey’s fingers and ears were so sensitive that there hasn’t yet been a mechanical lock he couldn’t pick in under five minutes. And Ian, well, there hasn’t yet been a gay man he couldn’t seduce.

“Let me help you.” Aron stepped toward Ian, who was now pressing the sole of his dress shoe to the closet door, calf straining to keep it closed.

Stretching his hand out to Aron’s chest, Ian splayed his fingers over the man’s chest. Once again surprised by how well defined his body was. “You can help me take it off after the party. The senator is only in town for the weekend, and it certainly seemed like you had him eating out of your hand.”

Aron pushed against Ian’s palm, eyes hungry for more than the Senator’s backdoor deals. “Will you be eating out of it later?”

Ian almost laughed out loud, caught between the blazing fury he could practically feel through the closet door and the ridiculous interaction happening on this side of the door. How Mickey could worry about any of this was beyond him.

“Looking forward to...it. Let me freshen up so I don’t get the smell of champagne on your expensive shirt.” He motioned toward the ensuite door.

“Fine,” Aron conceded but his eyes were hard and a tiny warning bell went off in Ian’s head. “Tonight, Ian. I won’t wait any longer to get you into my bed.”

“Tonight.”

He watched the man leave, hesitating a few extra seconds before opening the closet door to an irate Mickey, who had his knuckle pressed to his temple warning Ian that he was dealing with a ticking time bomb. “That’s it, Ian. I’m gonna fucking--”

Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey’s shoulders pulling him close so he could shut him the hell up with another kiss. It worked, for a few seconds, but even with Ian’s persistent lips against his, Mickey managed to yell.

“In his fucking bed?”

“Be quiet, for fuck’s sake.”

“No!” He nearly picked Ian up, taking three big steps until Ian’s back hit the king mattress with a soft thud. The silky glide of the comforter against his skin made Ian moan as Mickey fell on top of him, hips between Ian’s thighs. It was a somewhat unfamiliar position for them and that, Ian decided, made it all the hotter.

“What if Aron comes back?” Ian bucked slowly, enjoying the sensation of being pinned to the bed beneath Mickey’s weight because he knew the other man needed to do this. Ian slid his hands above his head encouraging Mickey to claim his territory, and moaning again when he locked his fingers around Ian’s wrists.

“He’ll think you’re fucking the help,” Mickey snarled.

All kinds of sounds were coming from Ian’s throat now and his chest was heaving because that fucking turned him on, and he could see something almost punishing in Mickey’s eyes. He found Ian’s cock with his own and the pressure of his lips against Ian’s was obviously meant to be hard and unforgiving, but it only made Ian’s heart soften and he let Mickey take out his frustrations on his body.

He let him tighten his fingers almost painfully around Ian’s lean wrists, he let him grind his cock against Ian’s meeting him thrust for thrust, and he let him scrape his teeth over the sensitive skin of Ian’s lower lip. He willingly did all this until he felt the softening of Mickey’s heart too.

“Hey,” he whispered finally. “Nothing happened and nothing will. I’d walk away from the Hope Diamond before I let another man touch me, Mick.”

“He looked pretty fucking touchy downstairs,” he countered, releasing Ian’s wrists but not his body.

“He’s touched my back and my hand, that’s it.”

“And bought you dinner and back to his fucking mansion.”

“You know all that happened because I needed to get a tour of the place to find his damn safe.” When Ian ran his thumb along the crease at the edge of Mickey’s lips, their eyes met. “What’s really the problem? You don’t think I’m interested do you?”

“Course not.”

Ian waited.

“He obviously wants you.”

“So?”

“Maybe it would be...in your best interest to, ya know, take him up on the offer.”

“What?” Ian spat, feeling all kinds of angry and hurt. He tried to push Mickey off his body, but he refused to budge.

“I just mean, like, he’s got shit going for him. He’s not a fucking thief.”

“I’m also a fucking thief, in case you fucking forgot.”

“But you’re better than this life.”

Ian gave his chest a shove, and Mickey rolled to his side looking up at the sculpted ceiling. “Why do you always fucking overreact, say shit like that? It’s not fucking real, Mick.”

“You could have any guy you wanted, so maybe you should aim a little higher.”

“I swear to god, Mickey. If we weren’t this close to being arrested, I’d punch you in your stupid face.” They both stared up at the ceiling in frustration. “It’s a good thing you got amazing hearing because you’re fucking blind.”

“Look, I’m just--”

“No, you look!” He sat up so he could glare down at Mickey. “I love one man and one man only.”

Mickey shrugged but grudgingly nodded.

Ian punched his thigh hard. “Get up and get that safe open before I have to endure that guy’s eyes on my chest again.”

He knew that would get Mickey moving. When he sat up, rather than get to his feet though, he leaned in to give Ian one more kiss, a soft brush of lips. Ian laid his palm against the smoothly shaven cheek. “It’s just a job to me. I feel nothing, not a damn thing.”

“How’s that even possible?”

“Do you feel anything when you’re breaking into people’s safes?”

“Glad.”

Ian laughed. “Okay, so maybe it’s not exactly the same for me.”

“You think it’s cause all the old fucks took advantage of you when you were a kid?” He said it quietly but it might as well have been a shout for the way it rang in Ian’s ears. Something squirmed, deep down, too deep for it to be accessible. “So now you can let them drool all over you without wanting to rip their tongues out.”

“Maybe. Guess I need to thank them for giving me the skill to help you steal shit from rich assholes just like them.”

“Bull-fucking-shit you will. If I ever see--” But Mickey stopped before finishing the obvious ending to that threat. He let out a long sigh instead, and Ian decided to dig inside himself a little to reassure Mickey.

“You’re probably right, Mick. I’m good at pretending to be what they want because I learned to do that a long time ago before I knew what it meant.”

“Yeah.”

Ian’s hand had dropped from Mickey’s cheek to his lap, and Mickey rolled the silver promise ring on Ian’s finger under the pad of his thumb. He’d moved it to his right hand for this job because he didn’t want it to leave his body, but he could see how it might be symbolic in a way that hurt Mickey.

“Aron thinks I’m an eager grad student studying political science because that’s what he wants to see, but that means he’s never actually met _me_.”

“Fucker doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Mickey snarled.

“Just tell me you’re not actually worried I’d leave you for one of these assholes. Still...after all this time?”

“Look around, man.” Mickey waved his arms around the bedroom, but Ian refused to take the bait. It wasn’t fucking furnishings and artwork he cared about.

“If I wanted a bunch of fancy shit, I could just go buy it with our nest egg that’s gonna let us retire by the time we turn 30.”

“Only if your goddamn family stops screwing up and needing money,” he teased and Ian rested his cheek on his shoulder. “You ever pretend with me, Ian?”

Releasing a long breath, Ian pulled Mickey to his feet. “I can’t fake shit when I’m with you, Mick. Not since that first night. But if all this really bothers you, I’ll stop...but you have to stop too because we’re in this together.”

Mickey dropped his eyes to the space between them. “It’s just fucking hard to sit around the apartment knowing you’re...here with that asshole. Not knowing what the fucking is going on.”

“I text you, like, every 10 minutes.”

“I don’t fucking trust that guy. What if something happens?”

“Like what? I deadlift 330 pounds, run a six minute mile, know how to use my fists. I’m the one in control, Mickey.”

“Eating outta your fucking hand?”

Ian shrugged because that basically summed it up. “Do you want me to quit?” Ian asked again.

“I...don’t know.”

“Okay, once I leave this party in a huff after discovering that Aron is still technically married, we’ll figure something out,” he decided.

“Can’t you just leave now?”

Ian hesitated. “I’ve got a good in with the Senator and a couple other people I think could be our next mark.” When Mickey’s eyebrows shot up, Ian added, “I said we’ll figure out something.”

“Sure.” 

He left Ian alone in the bedroom, so he could finish with the safe, and Ian sniffed himself to make sure he was presentable before pulling on the expensive dress shirt. He decided to leave his suit jacket on the bed in case he needed another reason to visit the bedroom, then made his way back downstairs.

  
  


“Ridiculous!” Aron yelled, face flushed with anger.

“How can you say that? You potentially ruined your career fighting for same sex marriage!” Ian yelled back. 

“ _You’re_ being ridiculous, Ian.” Aron lowered his voice, obviously aware that his tactic of insulting Ian wasn't going to get him into his bed. “Travis and I haven’t been together for almost two years. We’re just waiting for the right time to make our separation official.” 

Before Ian could respond, Aron turned away from him, moving toward the assortment of alcohol decanters left out following the party. “Let me get you a drink.”

As he poured two glasses, Ian looked around the now quiet great room, at the wood paneled walls and gigantic stone fireplace. The last guest had left about ten minutes ago, and Aron had started yelling as soon as Ian asked if he was married. His voice had echoed off the vaulted ceiling, making Ian wonder if any of the wait staff was still on the property to hear him. It had been about a half hour since Mickey had texted that he’d wait for Ian outside by the main gate to the house and that Ian had better hustle his ass or he’d burn the fucking neighborhood to the ground, so Ian was inclined to hustle.

When Aron returned, Ian held up his hand at the glass of brandy the man was trying to force on him. “No thanks.”

“Come on, Ian.” He gestured toward the leather sofa a foot from Ian. “Let’s sit down and talk about this.” 

He might be keeping his anger under control, but Ian wasn’t fooled. The guy was one comment away from lashing out again. While Ian wasn’t particularly afraid, after all he’d bet good money that the man had never even been in a fight, he didn’t want this to end up getting physical. And he didn’t want to make an enemy since he was hoping to use his contacts tonight to his and Mickey’s advantage.

“We should discuss this some other time, when we’ve both had a chance to calm down,” he suggested, watching a muscle tick in the man’s jaw. 

Aron set both snifters on the coffee table, slowly, with so much control that Ian’s first legitimate red flag went up, and he scanned his mind quickly making sure he had his phone and keys and shit so he could get the fuck out.

“You expect me to believe that you stopped me at the conference last week because you wanted us to _get to know each other_?” Aron hissed, stepping into Ian’s personal space. “Like you’re a fucking Puritan.”

Ian didn’t step backwards even though he wanted to retreat. The guy might be middle aged but he was ripped _and_ he was several inches taller than Ian, which meant that if he attacked, Ian would have to actually hurt him in order to get away.

“I thought you were single when I introduced myself,” Ian repeated, even though that was the comment that set Aron off a few minutes ago.

“I _am_.”

“Okay,” Ian held both hands in front of him. “I think it’s time for me to leave.”

He took one step back, turning slightly toward the entrance which was 20 feet away, but didn’t make it any further. The guy was quick, pinning Ian’s arms to his sides and basically tossing him onto the sofa. Ian pushed up to his elbows just as Aron landed on top of him, and Ian figured it was now time to fight dirty. He brought his knee up between the guy’s legs with as much force as was possible, while pinned beneath 200 pounds of vengeful man.

His knee grazed Aron’s balls enough that he grunted and relaxed his grasp for a second, giving Ian time to bring the heel of his hand to Aron’s face, aiming for his nose but only smacking his cheekbone. The impact enraged Aron. 

“Goddamn tease,” he spat, face dangerously red and Ian felt genuine panic for one second.

Then Aron was gone. His body flying backwards and landing on the glass coffee table. It didn’t shatter but it did tip to the side taking Aron with it. He barely hit the floor before tattooed fingers clasped the front of his dress shirt lifting his upper body away from the table so Mickey’s forehead could meet his nose in the exact spot Ian had been aiming.

“Gonna fucking kill you!”

“No,” Ian yelled because he knew it to be the actual threat it was, and he didn’t want to spend the next two decades visiting his future husband in the goddamn joint. “Stop!”

But it was going to take more than a few shouts to stop Mickey now that he’d unleashed the fury he’d been holding onto since the first time he’d been forced to let Ian go on a job. On his knees now, he released one hand from Aron’s shirt and used it to punch him in his already bleeding nose.

While Ian fluttered around behind him trying to figure out what to do, Mickey rose up to one foot, pulled his elbow back as far as it would go, gearing up for another, harder punch, but Ian grabbed his arm, holding fast.

“Don’t kill him, for fuck’s sake!”

“Get the fuck off me!”

“No!”

Their little spat gave Aron enough time to wiggle free, using the upturned coffee table as a shield. Apparently a fancy heart shaped glass ornament must have been on the table and Aron grabbed it, almost blindly, tossing it with surprising strength at Mickey’s head. It made a thunking sound when it connected with Mickey’s cheek. Immediately, a line of red formed like a creepy one sided smile.

“Dead.” Mickey’s voice was low and Ian yanked him to his feet before he found a way to kill the other man.

“Come on,” he hissed. Aron scrambled backwards a few more feet, eyes darting between them like he was going to say something, and Ian shook his head. “Probably wanna keep your mouth shut.”

When Mickey remained rooted to the hardwood beneath his feet, Ian wrapped his arms around his chest and forcibly pulled him toward the front entry. He tried to push Ian off, mouth open to spew something at Aron who was now getting to his feet. “Please,” he whispered directly into Mickey’s ear.

“ _Ian_ ,” Mickey whispered back, hot breath fanning Ian’s face.

“You better get out,” Aron shouted. “And take this... _servant_ with you.”

After everything that had gone down the last few minutes, this was the final straw. Ian released Mickey and leapt over the back of the sofa, flying at Aron and taking him down to the area rug. They rolled twice as their bodies absorbed the impact of the fall. By the time, Mickey got to them, both Aron and Ian had each gotten a couple of punches in and Ian tasted blood.

“Get up,” Mickey said, shoving his hands under Ian’s armpits. Aron tried to use Ian’s distraction against him, but Mickey stepped on the man’s fingers.

“Fucking savage,” he spat at Mickey.

Giving the fingers a grinding with his dress shoe, Mickey snapped. “I’m not the one who tried to…”

When his voice dropped off, Ian got to his feet, swiping a hand under his nose and coming up red. “It’s okay. I’m okay. We should go _now_.”

This time they did. Ian left the front door open wide behind them, never so happy to feel the cool night air. In silence, they quickly walked down the long driveway and past the front gate to the main sidewalk where they finally slowed their steps. Ian had his head tipped back, staunching the blood leaking from his nose and wondering if it was broken.

“Take that fucking shirt off now, Ian.”

His bloody nose had trickled to a stop, so he grasped the top button on the dress shirt. When his wet, stiff fingers only fumbled with it, the anger he’d been suppressing started to emerge, and he yanked on the button but apparently quality meant well-affixed buttons as well as high thread count. 

Mickey stepped forward, eyes on the buttons as he popped each one open, and Ian felt moisture build in his eyes at the sight of Mickey’s capable hands. 

“Magic fingers,” he said quietly. 

With the final button open, Mickey pulled the shirt over Ian’s shoulders, then bunched it up so he could wipe at the blood on Ian’s face. He winced a couple times when it got too close to his nose, but he remained focused on Mickey’s face, the crease in his forehead, the lines around his mouth, the superficial cut on his cheek that was slowly turning into a bruise. When he stepped back, Ian grabbed the sleeve of the shirt to swipe gently at Mickey’s bloodied cheek. 

Then they just stood on the quiet, dark street as their adrenaline waned and the events sat heavily between them.

“We should walk to the main street, see if we can get an Uber,” Mickey finally said and started walking in that direction while Ian trailed behind him.

“Uh, you’re carrying a bloody shirt and I’m bare chested,” Ian reminded him.

Mickey stopped and spun around, waving Aron’s shirt in front of him. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Ian.”

Ian stopped too, startled by the outburst since he thought he was getting the silent treatment not a temper tantrum. “I’m okay.”

“Don’t you fucking say that.”

“Say what? I _am_ okay.”

“Bullshit,” Mickey spat, tossing the shirt to the sidewalk and giving it a swift kick. “We’re done.”

“What do you mean _done_?” The tears that had formed along Ian’s lower lids slipped over the edge, and he thought he might throw up as the adrenaline surged once more.

“I mean no more of that bullshit. No. Fucking. More.”

“Oh, I thought you meant us.” He could feel his chin wobble a little and hated his stupid sensitivity.

Mickey shoved a palm into his eye socket and breathed through his mouth.

“Okay, no more,” Ian agreed. "I-I misjudged him."

A gust of night air passed over Ian’s bare arms and he shivered almost violently, realizing they might have a problem getting home. Not only was he half naked, his dress pants were spattered with blood. He looked at his hands, at the blood caked there as well.

“Oh,” he whispered, feeling strangely lightheaded.

“Come ‘ere.” Mickey’s arms stopped the shivering immediately. He held Ian against his chest, fist coming up to cup the back of his head, lips pressed to Ian’s neck. “Let’s go home. Get you cleaned up properly.”

Ian slipped his fingers between Mickey’s, feeling the band on his left finger and never wanting to let go. “Mickey?”

He looked up into Ian’s face, scanning all its angles before making eye contact. “What?”

“Marry me.”

“What?” His face scrunched up in surprise and Ian kissed his lips quickly.

“Marry me.”

“When? Like right now?” he teased. 

“Tomorrow. At the courthouse.”

“Covered in fucking cuts and bruises? You probably have a broken nose, Ian.”

“I don’t care about that shit. I fucking love you.” 

He wasn’t sure why it was suddenly so vital that they be officially married. They’d been wearing promise rings since Ian had surprised Mickey with them on their six month anniversary, but now he needed something more than the promise. He needed the piece of paper too.

“I wanna be with you...officially.”

Mickey closed the gap that had grown between them. His warm hands cupped Ian’s face and his eyes were serious.

“Course I’ll fucking marry you.”

***************

**1 Year Earlier**

Mickey exited Prudential Plaza at 6:10am after a night of cleaning offices, just like he’d done for the last two weeks, but today, he swore the sunrise over downtown Chicago looked brighter, more vivid. Even the late spring air felt fresher. He inhaled deeply, knowing it had nothing to do with the sunrise or even the fresh air. Knowing instead that it all had to do with the damn redhead who was currently watching him from across the street.

He leaned against the brick wall of a bakery, ankles crossed like he’d been there for awhile patiently waiting for something or someone. The street lights were still lit and creating a halo around his soft red hair and pale face. He’d pulled the zipper of his dark leather jacket up to his chin and hooked his thumbs in the pocket of those goddamn jeans.

Tucking a cigarette between his lips, Mickey turned left when he reached the sidewalk, ignoring the redhead and joining the sparse morning foot traffic. He’d made it a little over a block when his stalker fell into step beside him.

“Hey, Mickey,” he said.

“Hey, Ian.” Releasing a cloud of smoke into the sky, he glanced at his companion. “How long you been lurking in that alley?”

“An hour or so.”

Mickey did the math and wondered what he’d been doing for the other six hours since he’d left the office with Hill. “Hanging out with your grandpa the rest of the night?”

Ian looked at him intently, while Mickey felt something squirm in his belly, unfamiliar and unwelcome, but he wasn’t naive. He knew it was jealousy and that knowledge fucked him up enough that he resorted to his familiar pattern of lashing out.

“Plenty of time to suck his dick.”

When Ian turned away, facing the direction they were walking, Mickey felt the loss of his attention, and he wanted to punch himself in the face for pushing him away. Sure, he was desperate for confirmation that Ian had not been pleasuring the old bastard while Mickey finished his janitorial duties, but he also needed...something more. Something that only this redheaded thief had to offer apparently.

“Nope,” Ian said eventually, eyes still facing forward. “He had to get home to his wife and I had a sudden bout of guilt over how wrong it is to participate in infidelity and will definitely need some time to think about my actions.”

Mickey’s step lightened because that was the response he was looking for, plus Ian didn’t seem pissed off to be put on the spot. “That so? You’re not having any guilt for participating in felony larceny?”

“Nah, I prefer to call it information sharing.” His leather clad shoulder nudged Mickey’s then. “So where we headed?”

“We?”

“We.”

Flicking ash from his smoke, Mickey smiled. “Breakfast.”

“Good, I’m starving.” To prove it, he rubbed his belly through the leather jacket. “You know a good place?”

“”Round the corner.” He motioned with his smoke and Ian grabbed it from his fingers, tucking it between his lips where he let it sit for a second, smoke swirling toward his eyes, lips quirked around it. Mickey seriously doubted he’d ever get tired of looking at this guy.

They arrived at Sunrise Grill a few minutes later, taking a booth near the back where they’d have the most privacy from prying ears. Not that there were many ears in the place yet. The work crowd didn’t usually start arriving until Mickey was finishing up his breakfast.

“What’s good here?” Ian asked, scanning the oversized laminated menu.

“I usually get the Big Breakfast. Eggs, sausage, bacon, pancakes, a pathetic fruit cup.” Mickey eyed Ian over the menu. “Best part is it’s only 7.99.”

“Let’s get extra bacon since Hill’s paying.” Ian set his menu on the table and folded his hands on top of it. “But I’m sure he’ll thank you for your economical choice.”

Mickey sat back in his seat once he shouted out their order to the server. “I take it you found some shit on the hard drive.”

“Yup, I went home after leaving you and had a closer look at it. Got his password list.”

“Fuck.”

“Mhm,” Ian agreed, sitting forward so he could lower his voice. “I’m not really interested in fucking up the guy’s life, ya know? Don’t want to ruin him or his business. He’s got employees and a family and shit.”

“Yeah, man, I get it. That’s cool.”

“Kay, good. Since we’re only skimming a little off the top, he won’t even know. He’s got enough money to support my whole fucking neighborhood.”

“Agreed.”

Honestly, Mickey would have agreed to anything Ian suggested at this point. He had a decent savings account and a potentially legal means of making money, as a locksmith, if he needed to go that route, so this wasn’t really about getting rich. It was about the thrill he got opening a safe that was supposed to be unbreakable and off limits. He’d thought that was the thrill he’d be chasing for the rest of his life.

_I’m gonna kiss you someday._

“Anyway,” Ian said when the silence drew out for several minutes. “The best part is all the client files on the drive.”

“What about them?”

“We’ve now got information on potential targets.”

“Damn...that’s fucking brilliant.” And, Mickey thought, it solves the problem of having to actually steal stuff from the safe then worry about getting caught because they never know they’ve been hit.

“Yup, won’t have to spend all my free time following assholes on social media to learn a few things about them.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up. “Shit, man, that’s my M.O.”

They grinned at each other. “And pretending to be a janitor,” Ian teased.

“Not pretending,” he scoffed. “I clean the hell outta that office.”

Ian’s smile grew. “You thinking of a career change?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged like he was seriously considering giving up safe cracking for vacuuming. “What about you and your career as a _magazine writer_?”

“You heard that?” Ian’s eyes widened in suspicion, probably wondering if Mickey knew more than he was sharing about Ian’s secrets.

“I was there the other night, when you conveniently got sick.”

“Cleaning...” Ian nodded. “Well, it’s a real pity that the U of C won’t be running that article on Hill.”

He tsked sadly, eyes downcast as their food arrived then he dug in, stuffing an entire slice of bacon into his mouth. Mickey watched him inhale most of his breakfast by the time Mickey got through his eggs. “I guess you weren’t lyin’ when you said you were hungry.”

“Shit’s good.” Ian stuffed a fork loaded with pancake into his mouth, speaking around it. “So how’d you get into...safe cracking?”

“My dad had a bunch of safes in the house growing up,” he began watching Ian lick his lips.

“Was he rich?”

Mickey laughed. “No, he just had so many illegal fucking activities going on, he needed a lot of safes to keep it all locked away.”

“Like what?” Ian asked around yet another huge bit of pancake.

“Guns, drugs, more guns, cash, more guns.”

“You from the South Side?” Ian stopped chewing as he waited for Mickey to reply.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

Ian snickered and filled his mouth again. “M’too.”

They tried to focus on eating, but each time their eyes met, something happened and Mickey could tell Ian knew it was happening too. But their conversation remained superficial. 

“How old were you the first time you opened one of your dad’s safes?”

“Seven.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, Pops knew a meal ticket when he saw one. If he hadn’t gotten locked up for killing a rival, I’d probably be in the joint now instead of watching you stuff your face.”

“You ever been locked up?”

“Juvie couple times.”

Ian nodded, picking at his fruit cup. “Shoulda eaten this first,” he complained, waving the slightly withered slice of strawberry on the end of his fork.

“Amateur,” Mickey said, ignoring the bacon and remaining hash browns on his plate, so he could stab a couple chunks of melon. “Always save your bacon for last, man.”

Ian licked his lips, eyes pleading.

“Fuck you.”

With a sad shrug, Ian brought a single red grape to his lips, and Mickey shook his head but he tossed one of his strips of bacon onto Ian’s plate. His smile was worth the sacrifice, any day.

“How ‘bout you? How long you been…” he trailed off unsure what exactly to ask.

“Sucking men’s dicks to distract them enough to pull a scam?” he asked after stuffing half the piece of bacon into his mouth.

“Jesus Christ, okay.” Mickey dropped his fork to his plate, no longer interested in eating his bacon, which should have alerted him that he was falling way too hard for the redhead.

“Not since I was 19.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I cleaned up my act, so to speak.” He grinned at himself. “You know... _my act_ cause I’m acting with them?”

“Yeah, I think I can handle a pun of that caliber.”

Toying with the remaining fruit, he spoke quietly. “I did stupid risky shit until I realized that I could get better results by being smart and using my head instead of my body.”

Mickey liked hearing that but he burned with unanswered questions, and he chewed his lip in hesitation.

“Whatcha wanna ask me?” Ian’s eyes were soft and welcoming but Mickey still felt like a needy bitch because they were mostly strangers and what the guy had done before last night was really none of his damn business. In fact, he didn’t have any claim over what he did now.

“Nothing, I’m good,” he lied.

Ian narrowed his eyes. “You wanna know if I was busy sucking any dick recently?”

“None of my business, man.”

“No,” Ian said, reaching across the table to poke at Mickey’s fruit cup with his fork. “But I’m pretty sure I’ll be sucking one soon.”

While Mickey’s dick, which figured it would be the recipient of this claim, perked up, Ian dropped his fork to the plate with a clang and sat back on his side of the booth, so he could pat his belly and moan contentedly.

His body language was casual like this was all perfectly natural, but his green eyes were intense, watching Mickey try not to squirm in his seat.

“I’m gonna kiss you now.”

All hints of playful teasing were gone, and the longer he sat across from Mickey just staring and waiting and watching, the more Mickey became convinced that Ian was simply hellbent on torturing him.

Mickey leaned back, mirroring his position and intensity. “On the first date?” he asked, figuring two could play this game.

A slow, beautiful smile started at the corners of Ian’s mouth then spread to his eyes, and Mickey smiled back, unsure what exactly was happening between them but knowing, whatever it was, he was all in.

Ian sat forward slowly, pushing both of their plates out of the way so his elbows could rest on the table top. His ass lifted from the bench and Mickey’s tongue passed over his own lips in anticipation. He didn’t know if Ian was going to reach his long, lean body across the table or if he was going to wait for Mickey to meet him halfway, but it didn’t matter because Mickey’s body responded for him.

He sat forward too, elbows landing heavily on the Formica. When he pushed away from the seat, his eyes started to close, so it surprised him when Ian’s lips touched his. He sucked in a breath, opening his mouth enough for the tip of his tongue to slide along Ian’s. Mickey felt that thrill again, but this time it settled in his chest. Maybe even in the vicinity of his heart.

Their future seemed to play out in his mind during that first kiss. He could see them working together, sharing this secret life, using the money to eventually settle down somewhere warm. He could, in fact, see all the way to the end of his life and knew that Ian would be the center of it all.

At the sound of new arrivals being seated near their table, they opened their eyes, slowly releasing each other’s lips but not quite willing to move apart. When Ian opened his mouth to speak, his breath warmed Mickey’s lips and his eyes warmed Mickey’s heart.

“Let's get out of here?”

Apparently, Ian could see the same future, so Mickey tossed some random dollar bills on the table, hoping it covered the bill. They exited back onto the sidewalk, busy now with office drones, cell phones and coffee cups.

"Come on," Ian said, tugging on Mickey's hand. He looked down at the fingers on his skin, aware still of all the people passing around them, and turned his hand enough that he could twine his fingers between Ian's. It must have surprised Ian because he stopped walking and also looked down at where they were joined. Then he used their connection to pull Mickey forward until he was close enough kiss.

  
  


Three weeks later, Ian waited for his coffee order to be called while staring at an older man in a cashmere turtleneck. When the man made eye contact, Ian dropped his gaze but left the small smile on his lips. 

“Tall Americano for Colin,” the barista called out and the man stepped forward. “And a tall Americano for Ian.”

As he grabbed his coffee cup, Ian made eye contact again. “Great minds,” he said, stepping closer so he could lower his voice and not give the other patrons a chance to overhear him come on to the guy. “Excuse me, but are you Colin Ferguson?”

The man, who Ian damn well knew was Colin Ferguson, nodded. “I am.”

“Ian.” He held out his hand, getting a firm grip and a quick once over in response. “Sorry to be so forward but I’ve been following you. Oh! I don’t mean as a stalker.” Which technically was not true. “Following your career, I mean.” Which technically was true.

“Really?” Colin smiled, showing off blinding white teeth and blinding narcissism.

They moved a handful of steps toward the restroom to give the people waiting for their orders some space. Ian's gaze skipped over the dark haired man sitting at a corner table, scowling around his coffee cup. 

Now that Ian had gotten Colin’s attention, he needed to focus on his next move not on the anger radiating from the corner table.

“Yes, I'm a big fan.” He leaned in again, making sure he was close enough for the Creed aftershave to reach Colin’s nose. It was the small details that allowed Ian to move their plan along quickly. He wanted to spend the least amount of time with these men as possible, and knowing their favorite drinks, cologne and sexual positions made it happen faster.

Colin sniffed then looked closely at Ian for the first time. “You probably heard that I tripled the family business since taking over control.” 

From a father whom you falsely declared unfit, but Ian didn’t add that tidbit. 

“Impressive.” 

“Working on a merger right now, in fact.” 

That will leave thousands unemployed, but again Ian kept that to himself.

“I read about that in _Forbes_ ," he said instead. "I'd love to hear more about your success."

Colin smiled. “How about over dinner later, Ian?”

His hand lightly gripped Ian’s bicep, sliding slowly up to shoulder.

“Oh, that would--”

“OWWWWW!” Colin screamed, and Ian nearly upended his Americano onto his sweater in surprise. 

“You touch him again, and that’s the last time you’ll see your fingers.”

Ian pulled his lips back into a tense smile. “Um, sorry, Colin. I’m--”

“Fucking taken!”

“Right.” Ian nodded, holding in the deep sigh that was trying to escape. “Nice to meet you Colin.”

Without another word, Mickey released the man’s fingers and Ian followed him out of the coffee shop, feeling the disapproving gaze of every patron, barista and millionaire in the place. By the time the door slammed behind Ian, Mickey had power-walked a full block and didn’t seem particularly worried about whether Ian had followed or not.

“Mickey,” he yelled but got no response. He stood outside the coffee shop wondering what to do. This was the first time since they’d started this...relationship that Mickey was mad at him, and Ian didn’t like it one bit. But he was also kinda pissed off. They’d spent two weeks tracking Colin’s movements and preparing for this moment. He was one of Hill’s top clients, having used his accounting services for years, so they had some good detail on the guy, but now he’d probably sue Ian if he ever saw him again.

That thought got Ian’s feet moving, since the guy would likely be leaving the coffee shop any minute, and Ian didn’t want to deal with an irate millionaire on top of an irate safe cracker.

He followed slowly, sipping his coffee and getting more and more upset. They’d screwed up the chance to make a pile of money, and apparently, Mickey didn’t trust him enough to do his job and only his job. By the time he arrived in front of Mickey’s apartment building, he had worked himself up into a lather of anger, doubt and guilt. He punched the buzzer since he’d left the spare key Mickey had given him in the apartment.

Two minutes later, Mickey rounded the corner, walking toward the door. They stared at each other through the glass, and Ian could see the anger, doubt and guilt in his eyes too. When he pushed the door open, holding it for Ian to step through, Ian remained outside.

“Coming in?” he grunted.

Ian shook his head, arms crossed over his chest, watching Mickey fidget with the door then step outside.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, barely audible, eyes darting around for a place to land.

Ian grabbed his hand, turning east and dragging him behind.

“What the fuck?”

Ian ignored him, long legs pumping and making Mickey skip a little to keep up. 

“What’s going on, Ian? Fucking talk to me, man.”

When they arrived in front of Zip’s Tattoos, Ian finally released the grip on Mickey’s hand so he could enter the building while continuing to ignore Mickey’s questions.

“Fuck are we doing here? Gonna ignore me all day, asshole?” 

“Hi,” Ian said to the middle aged biker sitting behind the counter, when he looked up from his computer screen.

“Howdy.”

“I’d like a tattoo,” Ian said.

“Come to the right place then,” he smiled, like he’d said it a million times before. “If it ain’t too complicated, I can fit you in right now. Had a cancellation but got another appointment in less than an hour.”

“Not complicated at all. One word actually.”

“Okay, then. I’m Zip.” 

“Hi Zip, I’m Ian.”

The man stood up, adjusting his leather vest before sliding out a binder from behind the desk and laying it in front of Ian. “Well, Ian, pick a font or show me a picture of what you had in mind.”

Ian opened the binder. “This is spontaneous so no plan.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first. At least you ain’t drunk.” Zip waited for Ian to refute that before continuing. “So what word you want inked on your skin forever?”

He could feel Mickey behind him, sense his presence, even feel his warmth, but he refused to look at him. If he saw anything negative on his face, it would shatter Ian. As much as it might be fucked up to feel this way after only a few weeks, he knew what he felt and now he wanted Mickey to know too. 

“Mickey.”

Zip glanced over Ian’s shoulder then shrugged and started tapping into his computer, while Ian began scanning the various font options. Skimming past the ornate, flowery styles, he searched for something that felt appropriate. He’d never considered getting a tattoo because there’d never been anything he’d wanted on his body enough to do it. Now he had a reason.

“Bombshell pro maybe,” Ian hummed, liking the artistry of it. “Oh, this one’s called Lover’s Quarrel, seems fitting.” 

It really wasn’t a solid contender because it was too feminine, but it would certainly remind him of this moment.

“There’s Chinese characters. Wonder what Mickey looks like in Chinese.” He continued to talk to himself, well aware that the actual Mickey was listening to every word and that he’d gotten closer and closer to the counter.

“How ‘bout that one?”

Ian smirked at the feel of Mickey’s chest pressed to his shoulder. “Sunshine in my Soul,” Ian read. It was a straightforward font, cursive but not too flowery, and most important to Ian, easy to read. There would be no mistaking what was tattooed on his body. “I like it.”

“Me too,” Mickey said, and Ian finally looked at him, at the contriteness and affection on his face. “You sure about this, Ian?”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Mickey ran a finger along his eyebrow, eyes flicking toward where Zip stood at the back wall sorting through a series of metal tool chests, before pressing his lips to Ian’s shoulder. “I’m sure too,” he whispered. 

Ian slid his hand up Mickey's thigh to his hip and squeezed. His chin grazed Mickey’s temple slowly then he turned his attention to the back wall.

“Since Mickey is the sunshine in my soul, Zip, we’ll go with that font.”

“Have a seat then.”

Mickey stepped back, so Ian could round the front counter and make his way to the only adjustable chair in the place. It was set up in a reclined position, easy for Ian to slide his ass onto the padded seat, settling back.

“Where are we inking ya?” Zip asked as he squatted down to retrieve a box of latex gloves.

Eyes on Mickey, Ian pressed a hand into his abdomen, slowly pushing his sweater up. Desire flicked through his body when Mickey’s eyes dropped to the exposed, pale skin. His tongue darted out, swiping over his lips, and Ian unbuttoned his jeans. Mickey’s eyes shot back up to Ian’s in surprise. Then he lowered the zipper, abs tensing in response to both the sound of the metal opening and the heat in Mickey’s gaze.

As he lifted his ass slightly off the chair, so he could shimmy the jeans and briefs lower on his hips, he gave Mickey one final look then turned toward Zip. His heart was near to redlining and the look on Mickey’s face was sending way too much blood to his dick, which he figured the tattoo artist would not appreciate.

When Zip stopped next to his chair, Ian ran his right finger along the V of abdominal muscle until it disappeared below the band of his boxer briefs. “Here,” he said, unable to stop himself from glancing at Mickey for approval.

Wheeling his stool toward Ian, Zip held out a pen and clipboard.“Sign your life away,” he said, giving Ian a minute to skim the form and sign it before tossing it on his trolley. “So, the standard? Black ink?” 

Flicking his eyes to Mickey’s hair then down to his eyes, Ian asked, “Any way to get some blue in there too?”

Zip followed Ian’s gaze, landing on Mickey briefly then he wheeled himself toward his tubs of color. “Baby blue with a hint of smoke.”

Ian reclined into the chair so Zip could wipe his pelvic area with a disinfectant cloth, but Ian’s grin split his face. “Sounds about right to me.”

Ignoring Ian’s teasing, Mickey leaned onto the front counter to watch Zip press the carbon paper against Ian’s skin for a minute then pull it back to reveal the faint stencil left behind. 

“Perfect,” Ian whispered at the sight and relaxed fully, maybe for the first time in his life. “You know what, Zip?”

“What’s that, Ian?”

“I’m gonna marry Mickey someday.”

Mickey’s baby blues softened, reminding Ian of the perfect summer’s day.

“Probably a good thing,” Zip commented as the needle buzzed to life, marking the first swoop of the _M_ on his body. “He’s under your skin now.”


End file.
